The two white geese, Gertrude Stein and Alice B. Toklas, were carried down from the house by Allie, the 16-year-old daughter of an animal rescuer up in Laurel Canyon. The mother-and-daughter team scours county animal shelters, from Los Angeles to Riverside, to save beasts scheduled to be killed that day.

There had been three geese, Allie points out, but recently a coyote had picked off one of them from the yard — inflicting on the two survivors the goose version of post-traumatic stress disorder. This took the form of them clinging desperately to each other, checking in multiple times an hour with a honking call and response.

Since the attack, Gertrude and Alice had been confined to a bathroom

for their own safety. Allie knew this was not ideal, which is why the

birds were donated to LA Weekly earlier this year, along with a huge bag of goose food.

The newspaper was looking to fulfill a marketing campaign promise it

had made for its annual theater awards show in April — the appearance

of one live goose.

Amit Itelman, who runs the Steve Allen Theater, was co-producing this

year's theater awards. The whole goose thing was his idea. He had

prepared a refuge for them in the garden of his Glendale home. It's a

sloping yard, with a flat patio. He had hoped they would stay on the

hill, by the vegetation, but geese like flatlands, so they parked

themselves mostly on the patio, where he had placed a small plastic

bathing pool. This resulted in what Itelman describes as mountains of

excrement, which he tried in vain to hose off and away into the

hinterland. In the race between man and goose shit, the shit kept


Even so, Itelman discovered that he was becoming bonded to the geese,

and they to him. They greeted him when he arrived home. They followed

him around the garden. Birds and man started to share a common language.

He learned to distinguish between their expressions of fear and joy. He

learned to differentiate among their variations of barking.

One particularly stressful day, he couldn't get them to shut up. Then

he realized that, from the patio, they were seeing their own

reflections in a sliding glass door and panicked that Itelman had

entrapped two other geese in his living room. It got worse, he says.

When he opened the glass door, he wiped out the goose reflections,

thereby sending Gertrude and Alice into a frenzy. That was when the

neighbors started cursing from the street.

As the awards show

approached, it was evident that Gertrude and Alice were inseparable.

They would have to appear onstage together, or not at all. For the show,

Itelman built them a dollhouse set, a miniature office, with a tiny

neon sign flashing on one wall. Gertrude and Alice would appear inside

the “set,” honking nonstop — at least that much could be relied on.

This would be presented as a scene from David Mamet's Glengarry Glen Ross, which the geese performed valiantly, their barking “translated” by Itelman from the stage.


show went as planned. Afterward, temperatures in Los Angeles rose and

the geese showed the first signs of irritability, squabbling, biting

each other for the right to occupy the tiny pool. Itelman knew the

situation was unsustainable, but with hundreds of geese scheduled to be

evicted from Echo Park lake (which is to be drained and cleaned), no

bird sanctuary in three counties would take them. After a month of

rejections, Itelman found a referral to “Guido,” a young guy who had

just inherited his grandmother's estate in Bodega Bay. The land included

a huge lake with an island in the middle. Guido and Itelman spoke by

phone. “Sure, bring 'em up.”

For the eight-hour drive in Itelman's

jeep, Gertrude and Alice were separated into different cages, probably

convinced they were en route to slaughter. They shrieked as though meat

hooks were descending in front of their eyes. On the Golden State

Freeway, Itelman stumbled upon his latest goose insight: They like Led

Zeppelin in general, and “The Rain Song” in particular. From there on

out, it was smooth driving.

On the lake bank, Itelman opened the

two cage doors. After Gertrude and Alice emerged, they flapped their

wings while standing erect. They bumped chests — a goose expression of

joy. And then they descended into the great expanse of water, floating

as though on a bed of silk. Guido and Itelman floated beside them in a

rowboat to the island. The geese dunked themselves in the water. They

luxuriated in the cool Sonoma County breezes. They had arrived in goose


On the ride back to shore, Gertrude and Alice tagged along

beside the boat. All understood that this was a parting. Itelman says

he started to sob, from love, from gratitude, from sorrow, while Guido

respectfully looked away.

The men trudged up the embankment, two great white birds, like angels, floated away from shore.

LA Weekly